


My Last Breath Was Your Rose

by dl_arah



Category: Original Work
Genre: AU, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, God! Cora, Hanahaki Disease, Lots of flowers, M/M, Mack has Florakinesis, New Jersey Setting, Overuse of the word pink, Phyllorhodomancer! Ryland, Reaper/deamon thing! Ryland, Temporary Unrequited Love, its okay though, powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-08 20:52:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10395834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dl_arah/pseuds/dl_arah
Summary: "I'm Mack. Do you think I could get your number, too, possibly, so that we don't keep running into each other like this? It's bothersome, not knowing whether you're going to bump into me, when I want flowers, and I'd like to prevent it from happening, in the future."He felt a rush of adrenaline, as he waited for an answer, not quite up for the rejection, but also not knowing if he could take the acceptance."You know, Mack, you're kind of pushing it, considering you have no idea whether I'm gay or bi, or anything. I could be in a relationship, for all you know."It's not a no, but it's leading in that direction. Mack, though, won't let it get there."If you gave me your number, I'd have the chance to find these things out, you know."Ryland's eyes search Mack's, looking for any impure intentions."Not if I don't text you back.""Maybe I just want to be your friend.""Maybe I don't want a friend."





	1. Chapter 1

When the little boy was seven, he grew his first flower.  
It was a Daisy, grown in the tiny palm of the blonde boy's hand.  
The Daisy was for his mother.  
The green-eyed boy decided, then, in that split second of a moment, when the bud was only tiny, that he would forever grow flowers for his mother.  
For his dying mother.  
When the little boy was seven, his mother died.

♦

He didn't know, but when he was 16, his father coughed up the first petal.  
Coincidentally, or maybe not so much, it was four days after he'd built his son the greenhouse.  
Coincidentally, but probably not, he coughed up the first petal four days after the nine-year anniversary of his wife's passing.  
Really, some things take some time to grow. Really, he'd contracted the disease the same day his wife left him, but sometimes, the seed only sprouts after the wound has healed.  
The boy's father died three years later, when the Daffodils suffocated him, on a hospital bed.  
"How?"  
It was one word, but filled with hundreds of questions, accusations.  
"This disease doesn't care whether the person you love is living or-" he was cut off by another round, leaving him wheezing, unable to breath properly.  
"If you love someone enough without return, it contaminates, and consumes."  
"Mom?"  
The wilting man huffs out a quiet 'yes,' nodding so the teenager wouldn't mishear.  
"Why didn't you get it removed? I'm only 19, and I'm starting college soon. I'm not even a real adult, how am I supposed to do this?" he begs.  
"I'm sorry. But... I wouldn't want... wouldn't want to ever forget the feelings I felt for your mother. They were too... too strong. I'm sorry, but you would-"  
He doesn't ever hear the end of the sentence, for the poor man coughs up the final petal, taking his last breath, before he, too, was gone.  


♦

He first saw the man, exactly a year after his father's death.  
He wasn't paying attention, having been rushing to buy the rose, and get it to his parent's grave. It was a white rose, symbolizing remembrance, and it was one he'd yet to grow.  
He did, however, notice both the time he had to hurry up and get to class, and the man with the pink hair.  
With the first, he realized, as he glanced at his phone, for the umpteenth time in ten minutes, that if he didn't get home in fifteen minutes, he wouldn't be able to get the roses on his father's grave before he had to get to class.  
The second, he only realized after glancing up, was that the man had his nose in the center of a pink Violet, smelling, and looking serene.  
He seemed happy, and content, and the feeling rushed through the twenty year old, just looking at the other.  
He hurried to pay.  
He didn't have need to visit Fleur's for a while, so Mack didn't see the man again for enough time to almost forget about him.  
Almost.

♦

It was over two months later, that he saw the pink haired man.  
Just like a pregnant woman craves different foods, Mack craves flowers, and at that moment, he craved Calla lilies.  
Apparently, the man wanted some lilies, too, because he was standing next to them, his nose pushed into the bud, and neither boy noticed each other, until Mack -quite literally- ran into him.  
Oh god.  
"Oh goddess," the man groaned, standing up from his position on the floor.  
"Sorry, sorry," Mack mumbled, jumping up, to help the other.  
He looks up, and regrets it, when he sucks in his breath, just a little too loud, but he couldn't really help it. The man was beautiful.  
He was pale, with freckles spotting every piece of skin that was visible (which was not a lot, the man was wearing boots, pants, and a long sleeve shirt with a scarf.) The man's eyes seemed to match his rose gold hair, and so did the jewel nestled in his nostril, with the long golden chain connecting to an identical stud in his lobe.  
Behind the man's ear what, what looked to be, a double tulip, also pink, poking out, sheepishly, on the Mastoid Skin.  
He looked beautiful, but also a little frightened, and he cleared his throat, after what seemed to be a little too long.  
"Uh I kind of have go. Maybe I'll see you later?"  
The flower man didn't wait for an answer, just fled.  
Mack spent another ten minutes, just standing there, replaying the incident in his mind, listening to the way the man's voice sounded like the liquid gold of his eyes.  
He shook his head, and walked to pay for his lilies.  


♦

They run into each other four more times, before Mack gathers the courage to, finally, ask the man for his name.  
The answer is short, and not at all sweet, but rough, and forced, making Mack question his life choices.  
"Ryland."  
He grinned, trying to loosen up, both, the tension in the air, and in his mind.  
"I'm Mack. Do you think I could get your number, too, possibly, so that we don't keep running into each other like this? It's bothersome, not knowing whether you're going to bump into me, when I want flowers, and I'd like to prevent it from happening, in the future."  
He felt a rush of Adrenalin, as he waited for an answer, not quite up for the rejection, but also not knowing if he could take the acceptance.  
"You know, Mack, you're kind of pushing it, considering you have no idea whether I'm gay or bi, or anything. I could be in a relationship, for all you know."  
It's not a no, but it's leading in that direction. Mack, though, won't let it get there.  
"If you gave me your number, I'd have the chance to find these things out, you know."  
Ryland's eyes search Mack's, looking for any impure intentions.  
"Not if I don't text you back."  
"Maybe I just want to be your friend."  
"Maybe I don't want a friend."  
Mack growled in his mind, wondering what the guy's deal was. Was it so hard to say no? Or yes?  
"It was a really simple question, you're looking way too into this," Mack responds.  
The golden eyed boy glared, but asked for Mack's phone, entering the number, and walking away, without any further comment.  
Still, Mack feels victorious.

♦

He goes home that day, and immediately races to his over flowing greenhouse, with an Alstroemeria clutched in his fist.  
Inside, all along the walls and various tables, and even on the floor, are hundreds of different flowers, of the same breeds of flowers in different every color, shade, and hue. They’re in alphabetical order, so that he can feel some sense of organization in the jungle of buds.  
His eyes and feet make their way to the material section, partially hidden in the corner, and he goes to grab his supplies.  
Pot. Soil. Water.  
Then, he goes to the Alstroemeria section, and fills the pot up. Next goes in the seed. Then, his favorite part: he puts his finger to the soil, and the he starts to think, and imagine the purple flower.  
He closes his eyes, having the process memorized, and instead imagines the growth, instead of watching it.  
There’s the sweet, strong aroma of Alstroemeria, not there to anyone else, deluge into his mentality, sending shivers down his body, creating tingles in the ten small roses, lined up down his spine.  
First the seed sprouts, and then peaks up and out of the soil. It’s like watching a time lapse, only with normal time.  
When he opens his eyes, there are three little buds, all waiting to be grown. He likes nature to be as present as possible in the cycle, and always lets the floret finish developing on its own, knowing that it will become a perfect plant, tall, and beautiful.

♦

Ryland sticks to the back of consciousness. He tries to send out a few messages, but receive none in return.  
For a while, Mack thought the freckled man gave him the wrong number, until he got the message that Ryland just happened to be busy. For two weeks.  
Irrevocably, after some convincing, Ryland agrees to meet up for lunch. Mack suggests a small café, Luna Blu, not too far from either man’s home.  
Mack dresses carefully, in black skinnies, a white tee shirt, and his black Doc Martins.  
He orders his coffee, and sits at a table to wait. For ten minutes.  
Ten turns to twenty turns to forty.  
Ryland is officially an hour and a half late, when he strolls in, and he doesn’t even scan the tables to locate Mack.  
Instead, he orders his drink, and then looks to try and spot the mint headed man. Which is not very hard considering the color.  
The green-eyed boy huffs in annoyance, but studies the others bleached ripped jeans, and light pink cardigan. He has the nose to ear chain in, and his freckles seem prominent as ever.  
“Hi.”  
Ryland puffs out a breath of air, letting it hang between them, much like the growing silence.  
“I hope you know, Mack, that I am a very busy person. I do not have time to maintain a friendship, or a boyfriend. I hope you understand.”  
“Well, nice to see you too,” Mack deadpans, even more unhappy than during the wait for the other male to arrive.  
“Plus,” Ryland continues, ignoring the jibe, “I don’t understand why you would think I was a good friend, or why you would even continue messaging me, after I deliberately ignored you for two weeks. Honestly, I am quite boring. I hang around flowers all day, and I don’t talk very much either. I’m quite boring.”  
“Maybe we’re good for each other, because I have more flowers than Fleur does, I the greenhouse I my backyard,” Mack quips.  
Ryland stared, mouth slightly open, ready to spew another excuse.  
“Not possible. Fleur has two hundred and seventeen different flower, counting the variation of colors.”  
Mack smirks. “It is possible, considering I get special shipments of imports that they won’t sell at the shop. Fleur knows some people. I do, and you could see it, if you were my friend, if you were to come over, and do all your busy work, with a company of one: me. You seem to be quite the flower enthusiast, and I’d love to share our information,” he offers, lowly, and quietly. Mack wants this so badly, so, so badly, and he wants to see Ryland smile, with the reasoning of happiness.  
Their food comes, and both boys eat silently, one thinking, the other waiting.  
Waiting. Mack notices that it’s a common denominator with Ryland.  
The silence grow louder, until Ryland whispers, “Okay.”  
Okay. He sounds unsure, and the green-eyed boy senses that it’s because he’s scared, but whether it’s of him, or the outcome, or all the other possibilities there seem to be, Mack doesn’t know.  
“Okay.”

♦

For once, the man with the pink hair texts first, asking when a good time to meet up is, and Mack writes back, that he’s free the next week, and he is. It’s Spring break.  
So, Ryland comes over the next day, with his mouth hanging open, at the sheer size of the place.  
It’s not exactly a mansion, but the word ‘house’ just doesn’t explain the size. The kitchen is newer, and the living room couch looks brand new.  
“It was my parents… and they, uh, moved, when I started college. It’s already paid off, thanks to the financial aid my grandparents left when they both died,” Mack explains, hurriedly, tugging on the pink-haired man’s arm.  
“Where’d your parents move to?”  
Mack closes his eyes, wanting the conversation to end quickly.  
“Chatham?” he makes it seem as if he’s not sure, but really, he’s guessing.  
“Oh.”  
Out in the green house, Ryland’s jaw hangs open even further than before, if possible, and Mack giggles silently.  
“You weren’t kidding, were you? How many buds to you have in here? It’s… Wow, this is just wow… This is amazing,” the boy stutters, thinking about more than just the garden.  
“Told you so.”  


♦

They spend more time together, most of it spent in the building behind the manor, with Mack studying for school, and Ryland studying the flowers.  
Mack learns three things about Ryland; first that he strongly prefers pink flowers. Second, he loves to eat smoked gouda on grain crackers. Lastly, that he’s very domestic, and intelligent. Though intelligent doesn’t seem to be the right word for it. More, wise than intelligent.  
With the first, he figured it out the first day, when the rose-eyed man walked around to every flower species, and took pictures of the pink colored section.  
The second was learned with the bag full of the cheese and crackers, stowed in Mack’s cabinet and fridge. Every day that they were together, he’d walk into the house, only to return with a small sandwich baggy of the snack, and munch, happily, on them, until frowning when he realized the bag was empty.  
Only the third, Mack noticed over the long amounts of time, spent, only recognized during their fifth month of friendship. 

♦

“Do you believe in gods?”  
The question came unexpectedly, though this time, they were sitting on the stiff couch, (it wasn’t worn in enough, and probably never would be) watching a nature documentary.  
“I believe that something had have given me the knowledge and feelings, and po- about flowers,” he stopped himself before he said ‘powers,’ playing it off as a simple stumble on words.  
“Well, in Nauru, they believe in hundreds of different gods, and in the time I spent there, I came to believe in Cora. She’s, uh, the goddess of flowers.”  
Mack blinks. “Do you worship her?”  
“No,” there’s a soft chuckle, “I don’t worship her. I thank her, though, repeatedly, for the existence of flowers.”

♦

He takes the blossom in his freckled hand, and brings it to his nose. Ryland breathes in deep, the flowery smell of camellias invading his senses. He focuses on the name, given to him by Cora, and suddenly he’s there. Hundreds of paintings of pictures invade his mind, until he deems the information good enough. He’s looking for the hobbies, the skills, that the girl had, and the paintings and sketches told him enough. Aster, the goddess of art, would suit the girl well enough, and she innocent, so she won’t go Lucier to get a scolding.  
For all the badness in the world, Lucier is probably one of the best bad people. He meets with those who don’t have a good life style, and talk to them, and then he sends the off to the god, or goddess of their choosing. Well, Ryland chooses, or Madeline, or Jax, or one of the hundreds of other demons, or reapers, or whatever it was that they called people like him.  
But they choose based off memories, off the hobbies, and habits of the person, and they always like where they go.  
He decides the girl likes animals, and should go to Robin, but she tends to focus on Elephants, so Erin, maybe? Cora can decide, so he can just ask her lat-  
“What are you doing?” Mack’s voice sounds from behind him, and he startles, slightly, spinning around to face the green-haired boy.  
“Nothing, the same as usual,” he answers coolly, breath faster than normal. It’s weird, his heart doesn’t beat, so it feels different to be scared and not feel the fast flutter of his heart. He only breathes out of spite, not needing the oxygen.  
“I was waiting for you to finish class.”  
“I need you to go, for today. I’ve got something I need to do.”  
He knew it. Slowly, Ryland stands up from his spot on the dirty ground, and dusts his pants off.  
“I knew you’d get bored of me.”  
He makes to leave, still taking his time, hoping the other man would stop him.  
He does, and Ryland would be lying, if he said it didn’t make his chest burn with joy, and happiness.  
“It’s not that. I just- It’s really hard to explain, and I don’t think you’ll like what it is. It’s slightly embarrassing, and you probably won’t believe me, anyway. It’d just be easier if you went, and I didn’t have to explain.”  
“I’m sure I’ve seen, and heard worse.”  
Ryland mentally notes how Mack sucks the inside of his cheek, into his teeth, to nibble as the soft flesh. He bites his tongue, thinking of how stupid he feels. He knew not to get attached, and he didn’t want to, but it’d been hundreds of years since he’d seen his friends. They all passed away, and went to their respective gods and goddesses. He could visit them, if he wanted, but his style and speech had changed. They probably wouldn’t even recognize him, and he doesn’t really want to find out if they would or not. Still, he couldn’t help but feel the hurt, override the happiness, and he pushes it down to his stomach, hoping it would make him feel a little better. It doesn’t. Instead, he feels sick, unwell. He hates this even more.  
“I- Fine, stay.”  
Mack goes to the creation station, and starts picking out the flower pots, and dirt, and Ryland goes to help him.  
“Don’t worry, Ry, I’ve got this. This one’s mine.”  
The nick name soothes the sickness, and it’s replaced by uncomfortableness. Mack never pushes away his help, always accepts it.  
He watches as Mack brings the pot to the roses, and sets it in the red section. He observes, and waits, eager, patiently taking in every move.  
Mack puts a finger to the soil, tilting his head back, closing his eyes.  
Ryland stumbles back, slightly, when the green bud peeks up, and morphs into a dark, dark, red, almost black, bud. It continues to grow, and only stops, when Mack removes his finger.  
And the it’s over.  
“Cora…”  
Mack frowns. “You’re not going to say anything? Just your goddess’s name, nothing else. No ‘what the hell’ or ‘gosh you freak, get away from me,’?”  
Ryland smiles, tilts his head. “No, of course no. I expected there to be the unspoken promise of ‘don’t judge.’”  
“And you think Cora gave this to me,” he asks, gesturing over to the flower pot.  
“I know she did this, there’s no other possibility.”  
There’s a pregnant pause, both thinking.  
“You’re so sure.”  
“I’ve learned to always keep an open mind.”  
“You’re sure you’re not weirded out by this?”  
Ryland shakes his head.  
Mack smiles.

♦

The first time he coughs up the petals, he’s confused. He’s standing in the kitchen, staring out into space, questioning life, wondering if Ryland was right.  
When they come, it’s a mixture of pink and red, sadness instantly sweeping over him.  
Immediately, he grabs a sponge, falling to his knees to clean everything up, as fast as possible. Ryland is coming over, soon, and he doesn’t want Ryland to know. Not until he figures out for himself, who it is.  
His parents? No, he loved them, but it wasn’t a heartbreaking pain in his chest when the love wasn’t returned.  
He didn’t have any close frien-  
Ryland.  
Ryland?  
He pauses scrubbing, the iron-y smell infiltrating his nose.  
No, it couldn’t be. He liked Ry as a friend, only. Only a friend.  
When he’s done cleaning, he throws his shirt away, and is just pulling on the new one when the man of his previous thoughts sweeps through the door.  
“Hey Mack! What’s up?”  
Quickly, he jogs into the living room. “Waiting for your slow ass to arrive.”  
“Well, I need new clothes.”  
“Shopping?”  
“Absolutely.”

♦

Mack catches Ryland sniffing his petals a lot more often, and he starts to grow curious.  
In the green house, both boys are usually severely quiet, feeling as if the silence is a precious china doll, not wanting to break it. So, Mack never voices his questions out loud, keep them to his mind. He doesn’t really think Ryland would hear him, being so pulled into his trance.  
He really started to notice, the day he told the pink-haired boy about his gift, but then he realized, Ryland did it every time they were in the green house. He spent hours, with a notebook in his lap, smelling just about every pink flower he had.  
It’s the fifteenth time, since the gift incident, when Mack decides to confront him.  
The reaction is pitiful.  
“N-nothing. The just smell nice.”  
Mack sighs.  
“Yeah, but you always, like, zone out. I’ll try to talk to you, and you’ll completely ignore me, or you’ll forget our entire conversation.”  
“I’m sorry! There’s nothing going on, though, I just have a lot on my mind,” after a doubtful look, he adds, insistently, “Seriously!”

♦

The first time he coughs up the petals, he’s confused. He’s standing in the kitchen, staring out into space, questioning life, wondering if Ryland was right.  
When they come, it’s a mixture of pink and red, sadness instantly sweeping over him.  
Immediately, he grabs a sponge, falling to his knees to clean everything up, as fast as possible. Ryland is coming over, soon, and he doesn’t want Ryland to know. Not until he figures out for himself, who it is.  
His parents? No, he loved them, but it wasn’t a heartbreaking pain in his chest when the love wasn’t returned.  
He didn’t have any close frien-  
Ryland.  
Ryland?  
He pauses scrubbing, the iron-y smell infiltrating his nose.  
No, it couldn’t be. He liked Ry as a friend, only. Only a friend.  
When he’s done cleaning, he throws his shirt away, and is just pulling on the new one when the man of his previous thoughts sweeps through the door.  
“Hey Mack! What’s up?”  
Quickly, he jogs into the living room. “Waiting for your slow ass to arrive.”  
“Well, I need new clothes.”  
“Shopping?”  
“Absolutely.”

Mack catches Ryland sniffing his petals a lot more often, and he starts to grow curious.  
In the green house, both boys are usually severely quiet, feeling as if the silence is a precious china doll, not wanting to break it. So, Mack never voices his questions out loud, keep them to his mind. He doesn’t really think Ryland would hear him, being so pulled into his trance.  
He really started to notice, the day he told the pink-haired boy about his gift, but then he realized, Ryland did it every time they were in the green house. He spent hours, with a notebook in his lap, smelling just about every pink flower he had.  
It’s the fifteenth time, since the gift incident, when Mack decides to confront him.  
The reaction is pitiful.  
“N-nothing. The just smell nice.”  
Mack sighs.  
“Yeah, but you always, like, zone out. I’ll try to talk to you, and you’ll completely ignore me, or you’ll forget our entire conversation.”  
“I’m sorry! There’s nothing going on, though, I just have a lot on my mind,” after a doubtful look, he adds, insistently, “Seriously!”

♦

Mack is scared.  
Maybe it’s the fact that he can’t breathe very well, due to the flowers inevitably growing in his lungs, or maybe it’s the fear coursing through his body, making the rest of the air go straight to his head. He’s light headed, and nauseous.  
He’d just wanted to get Ryland’s attention, because the pink-haired boy had his nose in a flower again, and was ignoring him, profusely. So, he reached out his tiny hand, and latched onto Ryland’s cardigan.  
There was no response, and so, he went down, and gripped the freckled wrist clutched onto the flower.  
A seemingly big mistake.  
Instead of getting Ryland’s attention, he got visions, pouring into his mind’s eye, along with the overwhelming sweet smell of a Dahlia.  
The memories were still coursing through his head, all, consistently, including the same male in them, Mack wants to lurch back, wants to throw up, wants to breath properly, goddammit.  
But he can’t. No matter how hard he wills himself to move, he can’t.  
It seems as if his body was too focused on the sensory overload.  
The more time passed, the more his vision blurred, and then, there was nothing, his sight blacking, along with all his other senses.  
He blacks out.

♦

When he comes to, Ryland is standing over him, eyes red and puffy.  
First this Mack does is sit up, hurriedly, and scoot back, until his back hits a table leg, and he feels the stems and silky petals brushing lovingly on his neck, and cheek.  
“I’m so sorry, Mack! I felt you come in, and I wanted to let go of the girl, but she was too intricate. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry! I didn’t think you’d see it all-”  
“What the fuck was that?”  
Ryland stretches his hand towards Mack, but doesn’t move forward.  
“Mack, please don’t hate me for this-”  
Said boy puts the heels of his palms to his eyes, and grunts, “Just explain.”


	2. Chapter 2

Explain?  
It might seem simple, but he knew there were too many factors  
Ryland knew he had to try. It’d been too long since he had had something like this, something so pure and strong. There was no way he was willing to lose this… friendship. “I- do you remember me talking to you about Cora? The goddess of flowers? Well, she’s not just some book people read for fun. She’s real. When I was alive, I had a very strong passion to know everything about flowers, every little detail, that I could.  
“I remembered touching them, and getting visions, and thinking it was cool. Until I realized it was the memories of the last person to touch the bud. I died, at twenty-three, in a battle, and I remember, waking up, weeks later, to see Cora hovering over me. She asked me to help her sort out the people, in much more specific terms, and I accepted.  
“I use the smell of petals to hack the memories of whoever is given to me. From there, I decide who they go to, whether it be Robin, the Goddess of Animals, or Ciro, the Goddess of Fire,” he explains, and Mack’s eyes widen with every word, until the lids crash together, the poor boy clearly pained.  
“No, I haven’t done you. I only do people who are dying.”  
Mack’s eyes shoot open.  
“I- I think you need to leave. For a couple days. I- that was too much. I need time to process. I- go. Please, now.”  
Shakily, Mack stands up, and limps out of the greenhouse, leaving Ryland in more pain than when he died.

♦

Ryland works for a goddess?  
He works for a goddess.  
And what was that about ‘when I died?’  
It must be fate that he would fall in love with someone who-  
Love?  
Just as quickly as the word pops into his head, a painful round of flower petals come up, and he spills them on the living room floor.  
All over the white carpet.  
Fate. Stupid, stupid fate. Making him fall in love with someone who could hack someone’s memories. He wanted to stay away from memories, not embrace them.  
Now, he gets to throw up flowers, over a man who’s in love with flowers.  
But, the softer part of his brain reminds him, he took your gift with a smile.  
No anger, or ‘screw you’s.’ He tried so hard to keep you, but you pushed him away. He wants to be your friend. This isn’t as big as you’re making it. Plus, he’s beautiful. He’s got those golden eye’s and soft hair and-  
“Okay!”

♦

He gets texts, often, from Ryland, over the next few weeks, and every time he sees the name, a fit of flowers comes up, making it hard to breath. Every time, he sees the name, he cries, and cries, wishing it to stop.  
There’s a few stains, throughout the house, and it makes him sick, to see the dried blood, but every time he tries to clean it up, more he’s overcome by another bout of the disease.  
After the fourth time of trying, he calls for a cleaning person, to come and get it up.  
She looks at him weirdly, but, inevitably, does a good job of ridding the floors of the brown.

♦

Ryland gets a text, inviting him to go over to Mack’s, two weeks later.  
He starts to apologize as soon as the door is open.  
“Hey.”  
“I’m sor-”  
“Don’t., it’s fine.”  
“Okay.”  
And the Mack starts coughing, and Ryland starts panicking. Because he’s coughing up pink rose petals, covered in blood.  
“Mack?”  
“No-” he’s cut off by his own choking.  
Ryland moves, immediately, to help Mack, but the green haired boy pushes him back, flinching at the touch.  
“Hanahaki… Mack? You have… But how? You have Hanahaki? How… who?”  
The look on Mack’s face is pure pain, and for Ryland, it’s nothing but hurt.  
“Is this why you pushed me away? Mack?”  
“I’m fine, Ry, don’t worry. Don’t.”  
Ryland whines. “Don’t tell me not to worry, when you’re dying. I’ll worry as much as I want.”  
They argue, back and forth, about Mack, and eventually, after Ryland sees how spent Mack gets after the constant throwing up, they settle down, to watch movies together.  
More than once, Mack has to leave, and he knows it’s because Mack doesn’t want him to see the petals again.  
The petals.  
Through the red, he knew he had seen the pink, of what could only be pink rose petals.  
Oddly enough, he connects that pink roses are his favorite flower.  
He pushes the thought away, thinking that pink roses are the cliché to like.

♦

“Can you, like… physically talk to Cora?” Mack asks a couple days later.  
“Um, yes, why?”  
Mack stays quiet.  
“Why?” Ryland prompts, quietly.  
“I wanna speak to her. To see… to see where I’ll go, when…” he gestures around fiercely, “you know.”  
“I can do it, you know. Plus, I’m sure you won’t be dying soon.”  
“No! I want to talk to Cora. Please,” he insists.  
“You’re not dying soon, right?”  
Again, silence.  
“Right?” Silence. The green-haired boy looks down at his hands in his lap.  
“Mack tell me you’re not dying.”  
The looks sad as he looks up, slowly shaking his head. He can’t lie.  
“He doesn’t, and won’t love me back, Ryland. He doesn’t and he won’t, ever,” Mack answers, slowly.  
“What?”  
Ryland reaches out to Mack, but the other flinches back, a habit Ryland had noticed was consistent with Ryland trying to comfort the green-eyed boy.  
“No, of course he will. He’ll love you. Just tell him you love him, and he’ll love you back,” his voice gets louder, more frantic, “Mack!”  
He feels the panic start to flood in. Mack’s young, healthy. He can’t die. He isn’t dying. The disease should be in its beginning stages, because it’s newer.  
So then why had he been releasing so many petals?  
No.  
“-so, please I really need to talk to Cora. Figure it out, please.”  
Blindly, Ryland nods his head.

♦

How surprised is he? Very.  
Why?  
Cora.  
She fits none of his expectations. Mack imagined a tall giant, in the form of a beautiful young woman, with long hair, and a throne of flowers.  
“Go, Ryland. You said he wanted to speak to me personally, not in the company of an old friend, plus the god. So, he will talk- privately,” she says, in a British accent.  
No, Cora was a woman, who looked to be in her early fifties, with shoulder length grey, curly hair, and with the eyes of a husky.  
There was a hound sitting next to a bucket of gardening tools. The dog had a hazel eye to match his coat, and an eye to match his owner’s. Mack figured the dog must have a bit of husky mixed into his breed.  
“So, Ryland explained to me, that you wanted to meet me. I’m old, see, probably a hundred times how old I look, so I don’t remember much, especially, to those whom I give power to. I do remember you, though. I remember when Lexi told me she would die, soon after her first and- and only- child. Your mother, I mean. We were close, through her mother. You come from a long line of Anthrophilia’s. They all loved flowers, and would control them in some way. Your mother, she was a beautiful soul, perhaps the brightest, and purest I’d ever seen.  
“Anyway, I gave you the gift of flowers, to make her last years as nice as possible, for lack of better words,” she pauses, to fix her large floppy hat, and examine the red carnation she’d been planting.  
They were in a large room, almost an indoor garden with a much more impressive collection, than his own.  
“How are you, Mack? I know meeting Ryland, and finding out all this gods and goddess junk, must have been a very big surprise. So, how are you?” Cora asks sympathetically.  
“I’m okay, I guess. I came to talk about my… future. I- I have Hanahaki, and I don’t have very long left.  
I don’t think he could love me like that, so I don’t want to ruin anything. I’m also uncomfortable with having Ryland, um, read me, because there are certain things I want to keep private.”  
“Mack, everybody’s future is different. If it were as simple and preference, or however you think I could do it, none of us celestial beings would need helpers, to decide the placement. Yes, we help decide which is best, but they bring all the facts, and opinions into the equation, giving the answer perfect finality. It’s based on destiny, something even I have yet to figure out. Some people are meant to continue on, and others are meant to continue on, but hidden away from the eyes of others.  
“I’m sorry. I don’t know your fate, nor cold I read it. It’s not for me to do. I really can’t help you.”  
Mack’s shoulders slump a little bit.  
“Can you have someone else read me then?”  
Cora’s eyebrows knit together.  
“Why do you seem so completely opposed to Ryland being your fore teller.”  
The silence, and tears building up in Mack’s eyes seem to tell her as much as she needs to know.  
“I’m sorry, Mack. I can’t help you.”  
“Thank you.”  
Cora studies him, eyes intent with unraveling him.  
“I’m quite certain everything will work out fine, my dear.”

♦

There are rose petals on the floor of the green house.  
This wouldn’t normally worry Ryland, but it does, due to the blood and massive quantity of the silky petals.  
They’re everywhere.  
He gasps, quietly. He’d asked to come do some reading, and apparently, Mack had forgotten to clean up.  
He’d told Ryland to go on, alone, because he was too tired.  
Too tired.  
He really was sick.  
He goes to get the broom, and dust pan, to sweep them up.  
But what if you use them?  
He drops the broom.  
What? No…  
Yes.  
Tentatively, he picks one up, cringing at the dried crimson. He picks up another, and another, until both hands are full.  
He screws his eyes closed, and breathes in deep.  
Inhale.  
Iron. He smells nothing but the irony smell of blood, the bitterness, and utter sadness. He doesn’t even need to think of the green-haired man, the origin of the flower seemingly doing the job. Picture, and memories flood his brain, and he cries out, softly, at the impact of the hurt and depression.  
Mack’s mother, smiling, then her grave, with flowers littering the ground around the stone.  
His father building the old greenhouse, the happiness of the thought of seeing his wife again, even if it meant dying in the process.  
The hours poured into the green house, and a flash of every carnation, and begonia, and morning glory and every bud that took up space in the house.  
Then, the memories of himself wash in.  
Suddenly he wants out, and he tries to pull away, but he can’t.  
The one year anniversary of his father’s death, buying the white rose.  
The hurt felt when Ryland told Mack they couldn’t be friends. The happiness of him agreeing.  
The first petal, coughed up.  
The confusion.  
The realization.  
The torture of staying around Ryland, to keep the golden-eyed boy happy.  
He can feel the way Mack’s heart leaps into his throat at the sight of him.  
He feels his own heart squeeze, with each memory.  
Then, there’s the way Mack started crying, during Cora’s questioning.  
It’s me. It’s me? He loves me?  
If he ignores it, Mack will die.  
But he can’t put the boy through more pain.  
Instead, he picks up a new flower, on still intact.  
Back to business.

♦

He’s holding it in, the petals that want out.  
Stop it, he tells himself.  
Ryland’s sitting next to him, staring at the television.  
He notices Mack’s balled up fist, and looks away, at the wall behind him.  
“How are you?” Ryland asks.  
“I’m okay, Ryland, you don’t have to worry. I’ll be rid of this soon enough, and everything will be alright.”  
“Mack…”  
There’s a sigh.  
“Quit talking like that. Like nobody will care when you’re gone. Everyone at your university, and Fleur. They’ll all care.”  
“I quit uni.”  
“Well, I’ll care. A lot. And I’ll still get to see, you, just maybe not as much, unless you come down my path.”  
Mack groans, and tries to stand up, but falls to the floor, too weak, to do anything. He just lets it all fall out, pitifully.  
“Mack, shit. I know, okay? I know it’s me. Fuck, okay?”  
the voice keeps getting louder, and Mack just groans as the flowers come out, not just petal anymore, but real flowers.  
“Shit! Mack, I don’t know what to do. I’ve never had to deal with this before, please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t love you, any more than just a friend. I can’t. Can you get it removed? I don’t want you to die. I don’t want you to leave me alone. I want you here, and alive, and healthy. Get it removed! Goddammit!”  
He’s pleading, tears of his own falling onto Mack’s face, as he hovers over the curled-up boy.  
“No, you don’t get it. If i get it removed, I lose all feelings, and I won’t do that. I won’t!”  
“Mack!”  
“No.”  
“So, the only thing I can do is sit here and watch you be in pain.”  
“Yes, because I’m selfish, and I love the feelings you give me. The happiness. I was so alone, before I met you, and I was excited because I didn’t even think someone who knew as much about flowers existed. So no, I will not get it removed.”  
By now, Mack is sitting up, at least, panting a little hard, but sitting up and breathing, nonetheless.  
“I’m sorry.”

♦

As the days go by, Mack continues to get worse.  
He sleeps on the couch, and lets Ryland baby him.  
There’s more blood, and the flowers are full grown, instead of the baby buds and petals they had been before. It’s getting harder to breath.  
“Get me some pain pills? Please?”  
He watches as Ryland bolts to the medicine cabinet in the kitchen, and grabs the whole bottle, and then shakily extracts two pills.  
“Here,” he mutters, and then louder, he explains, “I have to read you.”  
The look he gives the reader is one of utter questioning.  
“You didn’t read me?”  
“I read the petals on the floor of the green house. I told me about your Hanahaki, but not your future. I- I’m sorry, for snooping.”  
“Oh?”  
The only thing heard is the ragged sound of Mack’s breathing. That keeps getting increasingly far apart.  
“Ryland.”  
The freckled boy looks up, and feels nothing but heartbreak, and anxiety.  
“It hurts.”  
He gathers the dying boy into his arms, and pets his hair.  
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”  
“My reading.”  
He curses, under his breath, and rushes out to the garden, to the Euphorbias.  
Again, like the thousands of time he’d done this before, he breathes in. He’s thankful for the iron-less, smell, and he sees the boy, smiling, and surrounded by his flowers.  
His green hair, green eyes, green thumb. The answer is instant, like it senses the inescapable danger ahead.  
He won’t miss Mack for long, and relief floods through him. It exits almost immediately.  
Back inside, he repeats the process of scooping the pale man up, to try and soothe him.  
Mack is in utter pain, suffocating, slowly, on the thing he cherished most.  
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, hoping the boy believes him.  
Mack cries as the last bit of the bush grows to full capacity in his lungs, closing them up.  
Ryland cries as he sees the last bit of life leave Mack’s eyes.  
There’s blood everywhere, but the only thing Ryland can even remotely focus on, is the limp body in his hands, lifeless, and cold.  
“I’m sorry.”


	3. Chapter 3

"Cora, it's been two months. Why hasn't he woken up?" Ryland questions.  
"Son, I don't know. Some take longer than others. Quite honestly, I don’t see why you’re so persistent in him waking up," she remarks, coolly, not looking up from her planting.  
"Because I miss him?"  
At this she looks up, suddenly intrigued.  
"What, I wonder, do you miss about him? If anything, I remember you would always tell me how clingy he was."  
"Well, I was lying. He's good company. I miss his company. Just him presence was comforting. It gets lonely spending over four hundred years sorting thousands of people between thousands of gods, you know," he whines  
"No, I don’t. Go on, explain," the goddess prompts.  
"He's funny always making jokes, and he's humble. And he has pretty eyes, the color of a Black Bryony. Seriously, I could cheat on pale pink with that green. Cora, I just miss him. Tell me what to do, please?"  
She looks at him intently, before saying, nonchalantly, "I don’t know maybe you could go see his body. Tell him these things."  
"But then he'd think I love him."  
"Do you? I mean you seem to think he's quite the catch, and you like his personality. I think he's waiting on you," she informs.  
"Could I love him?" Ryland whispers, scared at the fact that he's not even remotely opposed to the thought.  
"It's not impossible. I never banned you from loving people, being in love. Malinda would be unhappy with me if I did that."  
Do I love him, Cora?" the freckled boy demands, "I don’t understand any of this. I haven’t truly socialized with a potential love interest for over four centuries."  
"I'm not Malinda, I can't tell you with absolution, that you’re in love with him, but from the signs, honestly, I think you love him, a lot."  
His eyes widen.  
Oh.

♦

"I know you can’t hear me, but I miss you. A lot. I talked to Cora, and she really opened my eyes. and heart. she asked why I missed you so much, and I told her. Cora started nosing around, the old bag of flowers, and sniffed out something. Mack, I’m pretty sure, that somewhere in our friendship, I fell completely, and utterly in love with you. It’s just been so long between me seeing love, and I didn’t recognize it. I told Cora it’s been four centuries, since I’ve even really talked to anyone, besides you, so obviously, I’ve grown pretty socially dumb.  
“Anyway, I miss you. A lot. I want you to wake up. Like now. Do it, soon. Please.”

♦

He comes back to the big house, six more times, before Mack wakes up. It’s not with a kiss, or with Ryland saying he loves Mack. Ryland isn’t even there to watch it happen.  
He just walks into Mack’s room, and sees him sitting up in bed.  
And boy, is Mack confused.  
“Why…? I heard you talking. I was so confused. Shouldn’t I be with my parents.”  
Ryland smiled.  
“I told you, you’d join them, unless you were to walk down my path.”  
It’s then, Mack lets more tears pour down his face.  
“I thought I would see them again. It’s been too long. I miss them, so much  
It seems harsh, but Ryland starts to laugh, and crushes Mack into a bruising hug.  
“You can. You can go see them, I’ll take you there, stop crying, please.”  
Mack does, and starts quietly laughing, too.  
It gets louder, and louder, and Mack wraps his arms around Ryland, all the same.  
“Did you mean what you said?” he whispers, quiet voice full of happiness and mirth.  
“Absolutely.”  
“Re-”  
He’s cut off by lips that taste like honeysuckle.  
“I’m so sorry, it took me too long, to realize.”  
“You could always apologize, by, maybe, I don’t know, kissing me again.”  
Ryland is all too happy to comply.

♦

“Mom? Dad?”  
“Mack? Why are you here?”  
“It’s a long story, but I brought you someone to meet.”  
“Of course, of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god, this took me forever just to write, and it's not even really that long. Hope you enjoyed!  
> (The Jax from this work, and from Red Cherry Wine are different.)


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